When I was in school I hated gym class. Maybe not as much as math, but close. At least in math we were rarely required to strip down to our underwear in front of a room full of classmates. Oh, maybe once or twice during Algebra II, but certainly not every day. The best Phys Ed-related exercise I ever got was when I reached eleventh grade, and exercised my option to not take it anymore.

In this update I’ll briefly recount some of the gym class horror stories that jump immediately to my mind, and you guys can take it from there. How’s that sound? Good? Good.

Let’s get to it, shall we?

The horror of the trampoline

During Junior High we were occasionally required to jump on the trampoline. The jumping part wasn’t so bad – although the coaches were never satisfied with the quality of my bounces – it was when I wasn’t jumping that scared the crap out of me.

When we weren’t on the trampoline we were supposed to stand shoulder-to-shoulder around the thing, and act as “spotters.” Meaning: if someone took a bad hop, we were expected to catch them, and push them back to safety.

Yeah right. Some of those meatheads were bouncing twenty feet in the air. They’d go flying from one end of the trampoline to the other, and it was barely-contained chaos. I was always terrified that 150 pounds of knees, elbows, and feet would come down near me. And everybody would be disgusted when I stepped aside and let it all crash to the floor.

I also saw a guy do a face-plant on the trampoline, and bite off the end of his tongue. He stood up, blood pouring from his mouth like Gene Simmons, and sprinted out the side door. It was disturbing.

The coach who loved wrestling

One year in high school we had a coach who was a big fan of wrestling, and felt that it was his duty to expose us to this “wonderful” sport. I think a couple of guys came to some tough realizations about their sexuality that year, but don’t know of any who were turned into diehard wrestling fans.

They paired us up with people who were roughly our height and weight, and I remember “wrestling” a black kid named Ziggy. I put the word in quotes, because I basically rolled over on the mat, and let him pin me. I mean, seriously. Like I gave a shit.

Some kid name Mike, however, would go out there and do battle. One day he was wrestling someone, in his standard crazy-ass aggressive manner, when we all heard a loud SNAP! It sounded like a tree branch breaking, and he howled like a wounded animal. Then he held up his right arm, and it looked like it had a second elbow, between the original one and his wrist.

Shit! Everybody’s face went white (even Ziggy’s), as Mike continued to scream, and was carried out of there.

Taunted by a length of rope

During sixth grade we were expected to climb a rope that was attached to the ceiling of the “multi-purpose room.” I could never really do it, and was also afraid of heights. So, funk dat.

Some guys would go flying up that thing like a spider monkey, and start doing pull-ups on the ceiling beams. They were show-off assholes, of course, and the coach would scream at them to knock it off. But it was OK. There was a three inch-thick mat on the floor, twenty feet below. I’m sure they would’ve been fine if they’d fallen.

Whenever I reported to gym class, I’d take a look at that rope, first thing. If it was still tied to the wall, I knew I’d dodged a bullet. But if it was down… it was going to be a bad day. I knew I’d soon be two feet off the ground, swaying back and forth, as the whole class roared with laughter.

I hated that rope, and monitored its position for a full school year. It felt like I was being taunted.

Fighting to survive

During the Junior High years a person has to stand up for himself, or be emotionally steamrolled. I’m no fighter, but sometimes a guy has no choice in the matter. Ya know?

Some pompous little prick with a British accent (WTF? In 1970s West Virginia??), was always giving me grief. I don’t know why, but he tried to ruin as many of my days as possible.

During gym one morning we were playing volleyball, and I knocked one into the net. Little Lord Fauntleroy came running over, screaming and berating me in front of everyone. So, I took the ball and threw it straight into his face. Jets of blood shot out of both of his nostrils. The gym teacher yelled for me to go to the office, and it’s a funny thing… the kid never bothered me again.

Another day some cocky bastard shoved me during a heated Four Square match (heh), and I slugged him in the jaw so hard I think his head went all the way around. I’d never hit someone so hard, and it made a loud SMACK! sound, like on Mannix.

This time I was spanked, in front of the whole class. Coach Dye had everyone gather ‘round in a semi-circle, and slapped my ass with a wooden paddle three or four times. It was a simpler time.

But, once again, the kid left me alone after that. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? There were other fights during those years, with similar results. You don’t even necessarily have to win the fight, I learned. Just being willing to get into it is usually enough.

The horror of the locker room

Needless to say, I got dressed as fast as possible. Sometimes we were required to take a shower in Junior High gym, and other times we were not. It depended on the coach, I guess. Or maybe the principal, I don’t know.

When showers were required, I’d just go in there and stick my head under the water, and hustle back to my locker. If your hair was wet, it was good enough; the coaches would leave you alone.

I sure as hell wasn’t going to subject myself to the craziness of the shower room, if I didn’t have to. There were guys in there pissing on people, throwing bars of soap like a Nolan Ryan fastball, and making comments about someone’s “hairless half-inch.” It was a nightmare.

The whole locker room scene was something to survive. There were all sorts of antics going on, and it was my daily goal to not be the focus of any of it. I tried to stay on the periphery, and did a pretty good job of it.

To my amazement, there were a few guys who would strut around completely nude, and seemingly not give it a second thought. I’d be over there ripping my clothes on and off so fast it was just a blur. How could anyone have so much confidence? It seemed (and seems) impossible to me.

In fact, there was a guy who took it a step further, and ordered everyone to “check it out!” while fondling himself. “That’s half o’ pound o’ cack right there!” he’d say. Good god! It’s a wonder all of us didn’t require years of intensive therapy.

The sit-up heard ‘round the world

I suffered many humiliations in gym class, but one stands out in my mind. During high school there were government mandates that said you had to be able to do a certain number of pull-ups, push-ups, etc.

During the sit-up portion, my friend Tim was holding my feet. Remember that? Holding someone’s feet while they did sit-ups? Anyway, he was my partner, and while I was doing my fifty reps or whatever, a couple of girls wandered over. They were standing there talking to Tim, while I toiled away.

Then tragedy struck. I sat up with my hands behind my head, and farted so loud they probably heard it in the cafeteria. It was like something off Satchmo’s trumpet. It caught me completely off-guard, and everybody else was pretty shocked, too.

Tim began howling in protest, leaned way back, and looked like he was experiencing G-force. But he never left his post; he continued to hold my feet! One of the girls said, “Disgusting!” and they both turned, and headed for the hills.

If the girls hadn’t been there, and I’d just parted Tim’s hair down the middle, it would’ve been a great moment. But the presence of females turned it into something that still makes me cringe, more than 30 years later. Oh well.

It’s your turn now. Do you have any gym class horror stories to share? If so, use the comments link below.

Comments

How the hell did I not see you in my gym classes. I’m pretty sure you just described them all. (Except for the bone-chilling morning classes where the “funniest” thing some classmates like to do was run up behind you and slap the back of your thigh with an open hand. Hilarious.)

In 10th grade gym class I was playing goal keeper during a soccer game and one of the best looking girls in school tried to score a goal with a powerful kick, missed, and ended up drilling me square in the nads with her Adiddas. I responded with what I still think was an appropriate stream of profanity. Unfortunately, the teacher overheard and was so disgusted that I not only got a lecture about sportsmanship in front of the entire class, I had my grade reduced by one full mark. Still annoys me.

The best thing about having a major heart problem growing up is that I never once had a gym class. I heard the stories. I saw the kids emerging from the gym area crying snot off their faces as other kids snickered at them. Nobody bugged me about it. But when I was in the 7th grade a large bull-dyke gym teacher tried forcing me to run a mile because she said all heart problems could be cured with exercise. Needless to say I didn’t run it & the school had a lovely visit with my screaming mother the next day. That gym teacher was never allowed to approach me again and the principal was always super nice to me after. Heh.

In 10th or 11th grade, we had a wrestling segment, and I was partnered up with a guy who was born with one arm which ended at his elbow. He was bigger than I was, and always won. He ended up getting a lot of DUI’s later in life.

Another wrestling story. In the 8th grade, we had wrestling in gym class. No instruction, just a lot of boys scrabbling around on the mat. For some reason, on the last wrestling day, the girls gym class was invited to join and watch.

I was slated to wrestle the strongest guy in the class, who no doubt would have beaten me, but I refused to wrestle him. I had to take a shit like nobody’s business, and the last think I was going to do was fart my way to a loss in front of all of the girls. I was humiliated, but less than I would have been.

There was a petite guy named Rick Plant in our sophomore gym class that when it was his his turn to wrestle, got matched up with this big ass trailerpark linebacker. A minute into the “match” Pauly linebacker jumped up screaming every homo-nickname he could muster. Rick was standing on the mat in his mid 70s matching gym shorts and shirt with a huge fucking boner.

Last reunion I attended, word was Rick was a rich interior decorator in Miami Beach with a husband and two kids.

Heh. I remember not being able to do the chin-up portion of the President’s Physical Fitness Test–but I was able to be in the top 10 percent in everything else. Man, did that piss me off.

As for dressing out/showering, I was usually so sweaty, I was glad to do it, especially if there was a class afterwards. No way did I want to be sweaty (although if it was summer, we didn’t have any damn air conditioning, so it didn’t make any difference. Now the school has central air, 24 years after they told us WE’D have a/c by our senior year!)

I don’t even think that they have PE in schools these days. Am I wrong about this? I have heard about PE and art classes being the first things cut by local school boards when funding is an issue. Maybe that was just in a dream that I had once. If so, then I am having some pretty pedestrian dreams……….

We had “integrated” gym periods, in that seniors and freshmen would share the gym at the same time, but on different halves of the floor.

I, a freshman or sophomore, was sitting on the bleachers waiting for class to start. Just across the center divide was a senior doing the same thing. As we sat there ignoring each other, we watched the fattest kid in the school, a senior come out of the locker room.

Now I’m not belittling him – in the intervening years, I have topped his weight easily. But at the time, he was one of the fattest kids I’d ever seen. One of the classes was playing volleyball that day. Fat Kid walked up to the volleyball net and did a karate kick at the bottom of the netting. His heel caught in the net, and he spent a full 7 or 8 seconds doing a little dance on the other foot, trying to stay up. It was a valiant effort, but he eventually just tumbled like a side of beef, “THWUMP!”

I damn near blew out my O-ring laughing, as did the other guy watching. Tragically, only a couple other kids saw it, but it was a highlight of my HS years.

I LOVED not having that wonderful high school gym experience. As cheerleaders we had gym 7th period, the last of the day so if there was a game we could go home or whatever. We “practiced” out cheers and stunts! It was great. Rarely saw the cheerleading coach and did our own thing.

The guys gym (the other half) would change as the sport season changed and they would be in there with us. Not to bad. I enjoyed it.

The best part about Jr High gym class……going to the bowling alley on Fridays, how can you not remember that?

I hated PE. I was uncoordinated, tiny, and I couldn’t begin to understand why some girls took things so seriously. Who honestly gives a shit about winning a kickball game in junior high? I sure didn’t care. Good thing I didn’t, I was too clumsy to be good. Some of the other girls would really get wound up about it, so I was often on the receiving end if verbal abuse. I was thrilled when we got to 9th grade and could choose to be in show choir instead of PE. I had no idea if I could sing, but it seemed like a better option than 4 more years of torture. Turns out I actually could sing, so high school was much better than junior high.

PE class: one of the only reasons it was okay being a female back then (other than not getting drafted in the Vietnam war – but that was a wee bit later). We could answer roll call with “OC” (out of condition) if we were on the rag and that would excuse us from participating. Think I had more periods in high school than I had grandmothers die on Saturdays when I wanted to get out of work early to party before I became adult enough to be responsible.

In 8th grade I broke my collarbone wrestling in gym class, and spent the next six weeks in a cast. About a week into my recuperation, I was in the woods across the street from my house breaking bottles. I decided to hold one by the neck and smash it on a rock. Of course everything went assways and I ended up with 3 stitches in the middle finger of my left hand. So I’m trussed up on the right side in a sling and a cast and I’ve got a huge bandage on my left hand.What else could go wrong?

That same week I came down with a shit/puke virus that almost killed me.

I was lucky not to have to shower, but we did have to get dressed in front of the other guys. I remember being called a “faggot” for not having enough muscles/being a scrawny guy, despite the fact that THEY were the ones checking out my body. If I had to shower, and they called me a homo after seeing my junk, I think a good retort would have shut them up. Why the hell should other guys be looking at my junk anyways?

The only thing that really sticks out is when a fat kid ripped a huge fart in the locker room, and STUNK it to high heaven. You honestly needed a gas mask in order to get out of there alive, and I think it permanently damaged my sense of smell. I think it still lingers to this day, if you take a big enough whiff. It was the absolute worst thing I ever had the pleasure of smelling, and I’ve been to New Jersey.

I recall only having to take gym class one year in high school. I thought it was a waste of time. And I recall that wrestling deal – not fun times. I don’t recall gym class in the 7th/8th grade – what we call Middle School where I grew up. I must have had to take it along withe everyone else.

There was a guy in my grade school class named Charlie. He lived on a farm and his shoes were always covered in caked-on cow shit. The gym teacher saw this as no excuse for not holding his shoes while he cranked out the fastest sit-ups I have ever seen. I guess working on a farm gives you great abs. If my best friend was out sick (she was an often absent girl) I had no other friends and got stuck with shit shoe Charlie for sit ups. Bleaaaahhhh.

PE 7th thru Junior year. We all seemed to like it. Kinda like recess. We did a lot of running. Track stuff. Cross Country was a biggie. I guess the coach would send us out on a 6 mile round trip run and go bang the science teacher while we were gone. Girls seemed to notice when you walked into your next class, freshly showered and have that look of just having had a good work out. A little Old Spice on my neck helped out the aura a bit too I think. Showers were mandatory and if nothing else it was a very good life’s lesson in maintaining constant eye contact with others. Head up, eyes wide open and staring straight ahead at all times. Coulda filmed a zombie movie in the locker room the way we were all walking around.

Ohio kid here and yep…square dancing for me too. And the stroll. Form a big line, face forward and do this sideways thing, foot behind and cross over silliness. I did my best to be the coolest one in my row while singing along with Fats Domino and, “Walking to New Orleans.” I was convinced I could walk to New Orleans sideways by the time they got off that kick.

During one 9th grade gym class we were playing scooter football. Some big scary (probably in prison) douche named donnie took out a guy I new, Scott (Like head onto the gym floor concussion these days but not in 1991). Not a friend per say but an ok guy. I was not a big or scary guy but I had an awesome lack of common sense. During a donnie touchdown run I stuck my foot out and he slid off the scooter and went tumbling. He was maaaaaaaaaaaaaad.
He confronted me in the locker room and I was sure I was going to die but this was back then where like Jeff said just the hint of being willing to stand up sometimes helped. He made some empty threats which were to save face but that was all. I didn’t hate gym but i didn’t love it. I never had to take a shower, that helped.

So…imagine going to join a gym. They want to give you a walk through to show you all the equipment and facilities they have to offer. You walk into the back through the blue double doors and laid out before you is the same layout as your high school gym. Ropes hanging from the ceiling. One has a red line on it about 15′ up with a sign that reads, “Len Astor fell to his death, 2010.” Six of those peg board things are on the wall where you’d try to climb the 30 foot wall, moving left peg right peg left peg right peg, hole after hole after hole until you reached your highest point, too tired to move another hole and say to yourself…”What the fuck now?” Those pegs are in the lowest setting and being used as a place to hang your jacket. Over there you see some old guys on the trampoline. Not jumping up and down…just sitting there…bullshitting and eating salami sandwiches and drinking soda pop. There’s a basketball game in progress and you notice the hoop is a lot lower than it should be. And nobody is running. And the guy with the ball “dribbles” cautiously (more like a bounce or two now and then) hoping the ball comes back to his hand. He walks over, stands on tip-toe (he’s only about 5’8″), drops the ball through the hoop and yells…”ALL NET!!!”…to the thrill and high fives from all his teammates and his opponents.Then…they want to show you the shower facilities. You balk, afraid of what you’re about to see. You tell your tour guides you’ve seen enough and decline going in there. “Thank you no”, is your response while you try to forget what your mind has just seen in the shower room. Then they make an offer to show you their co-ed facility.

I can recall going outside for gym class to play touch football and a little feller named Craig got shoved clean into a row of bushes and ended up getting stung about 75 times by yellow jackets. Good times !!

Dear God in heaven, you touched on a really really sore and embarassing subject for me. I moved in 8th grade from a “gym” that was also the assembly hall, stage, kitchen and music room. We played Dodge Ball for gym. Then, we move and the new school had a track, football field, lacrosse fileds, 2 major gymnasiums. WTF???

Anyway – mortification story (which will probably top all mortification stories). For reasons that escape me, I had taken a laxative for some imagined stomach woes. I had never taken a laxative in my life and had no idea the effects. Fast forward to gym class the next day and having to jump hurdles (another alien activity). So I take off like a bat out of hell and immediately shart my britches full of liqui-shit. I wanted to hurl myself in front of a fast moving fleet of buses. I had to hobble back to the locker room, gingerly remove my drawers and go to the nurse’s office. I can still beak down in tears.

it was Freshman year in high school PE class we were playing volleyball. Some jackass was throwing the ball back to our side after a point was made and threw it hard underhanded and caught me square in the nads. I immediately threw up and broke out in a cold sweat as everyone was lol. The PE teacher had 2 guys drag me off the floor. Had another 2 clean up the puke and threw a cold towel on me and said to quit being a baby. I would have replied but I think my balls were still up in my throat.

Foot and leg got caught in springs of trampoline–check.
Climbed a full two and a half feet on the rope before crashing to the floor–check.
Landed badly on the horse–double check!
Did one whole chin-up–check.
Caught the dodge ball with my face–check.
Balance beam–you can’t be serious!

I’m still fairly convinced that the President’s Physical Fitness Program was a government directive designed to weed out the weak and uncoordinated!

I remember grade school PE there was a boy who was mercilessly drilled during the dodgeball games. He was the target of every “popular” males throw, all the time. His face seemed to have the bulls-eye on it. One day he was hit smack in the face and went storming out of the room, shattering the glass in the door on his way out. I’m fairly certain he did NOT get in trouble for his actions, nor should’ve he.
Today he’s a big-time baseball agent, owns his own agency.